


On the Merits of a Work-Place Romance

by beetle



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Avenger Deadpool, Feelings, First Kiss, First Time, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Mentions of Avengers Tower, Mild Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Past Peter Parker/Flash Thompson, Past Peter Parker/Harry Osborn, Porn with Feelings, Spideypool - Freeform, mentions of Nick Fury - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 20:33:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7860148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter doesn’t date coworkers. Wade sets out to change his mind. Written for this prompt: (http://writing-challenges-and-prompts.tumblr.com/post/149304093478/writing-prompt-dialogue). See end notes for full prompt.</p><p>Notes/Warnings: AU, but not in a difficult way. Deadpool is an Avenger, Spider-Man is not. Um. This is pretty much just porn that caught feelings along the way . . . and maybe stepped in some humor, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Merits of a Work-Place Romance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marshmallowmachinegun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marshmallowmachinegun/gifts).



Tired—unbelievably so, after a long day and a seemingly _longer_ evening—Peter Benjamin Parker let himself into his tiny, shitty, but rent-controlled apartment.

 

He locked the door behind himself and reached for the light switch, but didn’t flick it on, letting his hand hover as he simply breathed. Then he yawned, blinking sleepily in the dark of the apartment, which was only dimly lit by street lights. Peter was so tired, he didn’t even ramp up his spidey-sight to pierce the shadows, certain that, as ever, he’d only see exactly what he’d left behind that morning: cramped kitchenette against the far wall, with no room for a table or chairs; a second—or possibly third—hand futon against the perpendicular wall, messy as _fuck_ because when Peter gets home, he’s usually _tired_ as fuck . . . too tired to make it . . . and morning is no different, so even then, he just rolls out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom, eyes still more closed than open; the bathroom door, currently closed, because as Peter got older, he got more like his Aunt May, who couldn’t abide open doors in her house if a room wasn’t being entered, left, or aired; against the wall between the apartment’s two sticking windows was Peter’s messy desk and creaky chair with the trick-back and wobbly wheel, and home-made computer, with its huge screen and powerful processor; an ancient, chintzy mustard-yellow sofa that smelled like mothballs and despair held pride of place as the centerpiece of the room, along with a crate that served as a coffee table. A dusty, cheap, fake oriental rug completed the décor.

 

Home, sweet home. Well, as close as he’d get now that he was out on his own.

 

But despite the crappiness of his apartment, Peter was truly glad to be back, if only because it was familiar and it meant the end of a flop of an evening, spent with a rather vainglorious, pretentious, mildly-condescending, wannabe playboy of a date.

 

Perhaps, however, Peter had simply lost the knack of being single and looking to mingle. For the past two years, he’d been almost a hermit, his only romantic company his good right hand.

 

 _Maybe . . . maybe that’s the way it’s meant to stay_ , he thought wearily, sadly, but somewhat resigned. _Maybe some people are just . . . made to be alone. Maybe I’m_ one _of those people. If I_ am _, there are certainly_ worse _things in the world to be than_ alone _. At least I’m not_ lonely _. . . am I?_

 

Peter honestly didn’t know. He was afraid to probe his own psyche too deeply to find out. He was almost certain he wouldn’t like the answer.

 

Hand falling away from the light switch, Peter dropped his satchel near the door and made his way to his futon with just the ambient light. He’d done it a million times before. His apartment was Spartan enough that he didn’t bark his shins or trip over anything on the way.

 

He sat heavily on the edge of the rickety futon, shoving off his jacket and tossing it at his desk, knowing full well he’d find it on the floor in the morning. Then he kicked off his shoes and laid down with a sigh, ready to fall asleep without even taking off his clothes—wouldn’t be the first time—and rolled toward the center of the futon.

 

Only to squeak and fling himself up at the ceiling, clinging there and breathing hard as a low, familiar chuckle sounded.

 

“Boy, your spidey-sense sure is gettin’ _sloppy_ , Baby Boy.”

 

“ _Wade_?!” Peter crawled a little to the right and unstuck from the ceiling, landing on his feet quietly, dilating his pupils until the room seemed a bit brighter. Then he stalked the few steps over to the futon and, hands on hips, glared at the lump moving under his blanket. The lump stretched, throwing off the blanket. It took only a little further sharpening of his vision for Peter to make out _Deadpool_. Laying in Peter’s bed like he owned it.

 

 _Yet again_.

 

“In the flesh, Petey . . . the turgid, _engorged_ flesh . . . _if_ you know what I mean.” The leer in Deadpool’s voice was quite audible. Peter, heart still rabbiting, rolled his eyes and sat down on the edge of the bed again, too tired to throw Deadpool out bodily, like he once might have two years ago, the first few times he’d found the former-merc in his bed.

 

“A _five-year-old_ would know what you meant, Wade. What’re you doing in my bed? Shouldn’t you be at the Avengers’ Tower?”

 

“Eh.” Deadpool ran his hand up and down Peter’s back and, surprise of surprises—though not really . . . even single-handed, Deadpool gave _amazing_ massages—one by one, tense, stiff muscles released with individual sighs of pleasure and relief. “I booked it out of a time-vampire of a meeting. Fury was droning on about _some_ damn thing, or other. Alternate universe, blah-blah . . . crossing the streams, yadda-yadda . . . don’t go toward the light, Carol Ann, whatever. . . .”

 

“I see,” Peter said, only putting up token resistance when Deadpool pulled him down to the futon and slung an arm around him for some fairly _intensive_ cuddling. It wasn’t the first time this’d happened. Though, each time it _had_ , Peter had always promised himself: _Never again_.

 

 _I’m such a man of my word_ , he thought wearily. If he was honest with himself, the cuddling felt way too nice to resist _for real_. Deadpool was a world-class cuddler. And, weirdly enough, he cuddled _without_ getting even a _little_ pervy. Which might have relieved Peter at first—for obvious reasons—but now, disappointed him more than anything. As if he wasn’t _worth_ perving over, anymore. Now that Deadpool was an Avenger—for the past ten months, in fact—maybe he was too _good_ for the likes of Peter Parker. . . .

 

Huffing, Peter made a point of not relaxing in Deadpool’s arms, like he usually did. “You really _should_ be with your Avenger buddies, making sure the world is safe from . . . the Chitauri, is it? Or some other menace from another galaxy?”

 

“Eh,” Deadpool said again, somewhat apologetically. “’S classified. If I told you—”

 

“You’d have to kill me?”

 

Deadpool snorted. “As _if_ , Baby Boy. I’d just have to chain you up in my bed till the threat was over and declassified. Find some way to, uh . . . keep you _occupado_.”

 

Peter fought a smile. _There_ was that perviness he’d been . . . well, not _missing_ , but . . . he was just used to it, was all. It was a universal constant. Like gravity and the toast always landing jelly-side down when it fell. “You could always take me patrolling, like we sometimes do—when you’re not off saving the world, that is.”

 

“Patrolling? Bah! Humbug! We’re _well_ beyond the patrolling-stage, now! We’re practically _engaged_! Hey! How ‘bout we spend the night hangin’ out? Just me and thee?”

 

“Hmm . . . that sounds do-able . . . we could stream some _Gotham_ on my computer. Or maybe _The_ _Flash_ ,” Peter offered. But Deadpool snorted again.

 

“Fuck _that_ , Petey-pants, _I_ was thinking more along the lines of . . . dinner, dancing, then sodomy?”

 

“Wade!” Peter smacked Deadpool’s arm where it rested on his waist, using a _little_ spidey-strength, but not much. Deadpool winced, but only held Peter that much tighter . . . snuggled that much closer.

 

“Well . . . I was!” Deadpool was pouting. Peter could hear it. He tried to sit up, but Deadpool glommed on like a fungus, his face pressed into Peter’s hair, inhaling and moaning quietly, in a way that made Peter shiver. “God, Petey, you smell fucking _fantastic_!”

 

“You can’t smell me through the mask, jerk!”

 

“Oh, _can’t_ I?” Deadpool chuckled, rocking their bodies together gently. “C’mon, sweetheart, lemme take you out somewhere nice, wine you and dine you, and win that big heart of yours over, at last.”

 

“I—I told you, I don’t . . . date guys I work with, Wade!” Peter had, in fact, been telling Deadpool that since he was seventeen, and still in senior year. Well before the former-merc had become privy to _Spider-Man’_ s secret identity, and _Wade Wilson and Peter Parker_ had become . . . friends. “Fraternization just . . . _complicates_ things. Makes everything _messy_!”

 

The silence spun out between them for so long, Peter began to drift off a bit in Deadpool’s ridiculous-big arms, despite his _very_ _deep_ annoyance and serious offense. . . .

 

Eventually, Deadpool sighed. “Fine, then. I quit.”

 

Peter snorted sleepily, instinctively snuggling back into Deadpool’s tightening embrace. The former-merc smelled, as always, like a now-familiar combination of leather and sweat, gunpowder residue and taco meat. A fact which made Peter smile and roll his eyes without opening them. “You quit the _Avengers_?”

 

“Mmhm. For you, my darling angel of the evening, my noiseless, patient spider, my _precious,_ perfect Petey . . . _anything_.” Deadpool was nuzzling Peter’s nape, the soft, warm, worn leather of his mask smooth and teasing, causing Peter to shiver and hum almost contentedly. “I’d rather have _you_ than a J-O-B, any day, Baby Boy.”

 

“Mmm . . . jobs _do_ suck,” Peter agreed with a sigh, thinking about his own job. He wished, for once, he could just allow himself to call out of the _Bugle_. Take a day. But it wasn’t in him to skive off work unless he was sick. And he was _never_ sick. Occasionally _beat to Hell and back_ . . . but rarely enough to stay home. Even when injured, Peter tended to get restless without _something_ to do. It could even be said that Peter Parker hadn’t relaxed much, if at all, since he got bit by that radioactive spider.

 

“Especially ones that keep you workin’ so late, you don’t show up for patrol,” Deadpool huffed, his fingers brushing up and down Peter’s sternum soothingly, lightly. “If you want . . . I could kill J.J. Jameson for you? Even make it look like an accident. A _yachting_ accident—he seems like the kinda asshole who owns a yacht.”

 

It was phrased as a question, as a joke, but Peter knew that if he asked, Deadpool wouldn’t be above a little backsliding into his old ways. For free, even. Because _Peter asked_.

 

It made Peter feel powerful for a moment . . . and then he just felt a tiny bit frightened. Not of Deadpool, but of _himself_ and the darker side of his own nature.

 

“ _No_ , Wade. No killing J.J.,” Peter yawned, his hand settling on Deadpool’s to still it. And Deadpool’s hand _did_ slow to a stop, but even when it had, Peter didn’t let go. Merely squeezed the large hand under his own and pulled it up over his heart, not thinking about what he was doing or why he was doing it.

 

“Petey. . . ?” Deadpool asked hesitantly, his masked nose still pressed against Peter’s nape. Peter’s fingers linked with the former-merc’s easily.

 

“ _Shhh_ ,” Peter breathed, and for a few minutes all was silent, dark, and deep. Peter was comfortable, warm—despite the iffy heating in the apartment and the draftiness from the two unsealed windows the landlord _still_ refused to do anything about—and nearly asleep, Deadpool’s heartbeat steady and slow against his back, before a soft sigh broke the silence.

 

“’S nice,” Deadpool murmured, sounding drowsy, too. “ _Warm_.”

 

“Yeah,” Peter exhaled, smiling, his mind slipping further into sleep. So he totally blamed that for the next words that came slurring out of his stupid mouth. “Had a date tonight.”

 

Behind him, Deadpool stiffened, that slow, even heartbeat picking up speed. In the tense, quiet span that followed, the fingers around Peter’s clenched and flexed repeatedly.

 

“A date.” Deadpool’s low, gravelly voice was flat: it was a statement, not a question.

 

“Yeah.” Now, Peter’s heartbeat was accelerating, too, and he wasn’t as close to dreamland as he had been. In fact, he was positively _buzzing_ with sudden, almost dizzying wakefulness. “Yeah, I did. Um . . . listen, Deadpool—”

 

“Who with?” Deadpool interrupted Peter to ask. “Anyone I know?”

 

“Uh . . . probably not. Just . . . a guy I met at a gallery. His name’s Jason.” Peter blushed for some reason. Deadpool’s hand clenched and flexed . . . flexed and clenched.

 

“ _Jason_ , huh?” Deadpool’s voice was casual, but still too flat to be real. “So . . . an artist? Ya like them arty-types?”

 

“Ah . . . ah-ha-ha, no? Or . . . I dunno?” Peter shrugged. “Anyway, Jason’s not an artist, he actually manages this, um, gallery I was trying to sell some pieces to.”

 

“Tryin’ to sell some P. Parker originals, hmm?” Deadpool murmured, sounding a little less flat, a little more pleased. “So . . . didja? Sell the pieces, I mean?”

 

“Hmm . . . no.” Peter sighed. “My work was . . . a little too commercial and not conceptual enough for the gallery. More photo-journalistic than what they’re looking for. And even though they were technically flawless and objectively interesting, they weren’t as powerful or broadly-interpretable as the stuff Jason usually takes—”

 

“Wait—” Deadpool interrupted again, sounding incredulous. “This . . . _Jason_ . . . _told_ you all this? To your _face_?”

 

“Well . . . yeah?”

 

“And then—what, he asked you out?”

 

“Um. . . .”

 

“And you said _yes_?!” Deadpool still sounded incredulous. And offended, too.

 

“I . . . he was . . . charming and witty and, yeah . . . sexy. And I haven’t been on a date in two years, Wade. _Two years_ . . . of trying to get over _Harry-fucking-Osborn_ ,” Peter said defensively, stiffening in Deadpool’s loosened embrace. Then he relaxed and sighed again, shaking his head a little at his own foolishness. “But considering how tonight went, I would say that my attempt at moving on isn’t going so well.”

 

In the dim silence, Peter could practically hear the wheels turning in Deadpool’s head. He wondered if the other man was listening to his Boxes or simply thinking. It was tough to tell because, for once, Deadpool was keeping quiet counsel.

 

“Why do you say _that_?” Deadpool finally asked, and Peter snorted once more, pulling Deadpool’s big arm around him closer and tighter. The former-merc obliged without hesitation. “What happened to charming, witty, sexy, _et cetera_?”

 

“Well, for one thing, I spent the whole evening . . . _noticing_.” Peter clutched at Deadpool’s hand with both of his, now. “Noticing that . . . he was definitely _all_ of those things, just . . . _not enough_ of them, y’know? I mean, he’d make a quip or something, and I’d laugh, but inside, I was thinking: ‘That’s not really laugh-out-loud funny. Just . . . kinda smile-a-little funny. And in a pretentious, snotty way.’ Or he’d touch my hand and let his fingers linger on my skin . . . and it was _nice_ . . . but that’s all it was. There was no . . . spark. He was nice to _look_ at, _very_ easy on the eyes, but I didn’t feel the low-down tingles you get when you’re really _into_ someone. Not like how I used to feel it for _Harry_ , anyway. Or my first, um, boyfriend-type guy. And I can’t tell if that means I’m still not over Harry, or if I’m just comparing and contrasting because Harry’s the most recent one I have to compare to and contrast _with_ —I just don’t know. Well. I _do_ know I won’t be going out with _Jason_ , again.”

 

Peter’s tone was wry, but firm and the strong body behind him relaxed, finally losing that tenseness which Peter usually associated with battle-readiness in Deadpool.

 

“ _Good_.” Deadpool huffed. “Asshole doesn’t recognize genius photography when he sees it? Then fuck him. I mean, not _literally_ ,” he hastened to add, as if that was a real possibility. Peter laughed a little and he could sense Deadpool’s smile as the other man nuzzled his neck again. “Ah, shut up, Petey.”

 

“Why don’t you _make_ me, _Deadpool_?” Peter teased in a childish fashion, still laughing.

 

“Challenge accepted, _Spider-Man_.” Deadpool shifted behind Peter and before he knew it, Peter was being rolled over to face Deadpool. He let his pupils dilate just enough that he could make out the red, black, and white of other’s mask with the faint light coming in the windows. Then Deadpool’s hand—bare, for once—cupped his face gently, rough, callused palm raising goosebumps all over Peter’s body when it caught slightly on Peter’s softer skin. Deadpool’s thumb brushed across Peter’s lips so lightly and reverently, Peter shivered and made a breathless sound high in his throat. Then, before his brain could suggest a course of action in the face of this . . . _this_ , Peter’s body was acting of its own accord: leaning into that touch, shifting closer in the bed . . . and flicking his tongue out to tease the pad of Deadpool’s thumb.

 

 _What are we_ doing _?!_ he screeched at his body. And the suspiciously _large_ part of his brain that wasn’t freaking out about the goings-on.

 

Deadpool’s breath caught audibly when Peter’s lips closed around the tip of the digit, his teeth catching it almost playfully and nibbling.

 

 _Fraternizing_ , that rather large—and growing larger—part of Peter’s brain answered giddily.

 

“Fuck,” Deadpool exhaled, and then his other hand was sliding out from under Peter and there was the creaky rustle of leather. Peter could just make out Deadpool pushing up his mask to rest on his nose. Not an unfamiliar sight. Deadpool did it often when they chilled out together or when they got take-out to eat after a long night of patrolling. In the darkness, Peter couldn’t make out the scars on his face, as he usually could, but he could make out Deadpool’s lips, full and slightly parted. Swiped, absently, with a tip of tongue.

 

Peter felt a long-forgotten stirring in his gut and . . . other places, that he almost didn’t recognize, it’d been so long since he felt it. It was more than a little alarming that he was feeling it for . . . _Deadpool_.

 

He made that high, breathless sound again, pulling off of Deadpool’s thumb, licking the taste of salt and something faintly spicy—probably that _painfully_ hot shit Deadpool liked on his tacos and damn near everything else he ate—from his tingling lips.

 

“Wade,” he began, confused and shy—frightened, but _wanting_. But Deadpool’s thumb settled over his lips until he stopped trying to speak.

 

“ _Hush_ , Baby Boy,” he whispered, smiling, his teeth white even in the dimness. Then he was leaning closer to Peter, till Peter could feel warm, humid breath on his mouth, followed by insanely soft, sure lips pressing his own for eternal moments, Deadpool’s thumb now stroking Peter’s cheek.

 

With a jolt so powerful, it was almost like that time he’d gotten a bad electric shock while helping his Uncle Ben fix the old Zenith television in the living room, Peter uttered a low, desperate moan, his lips parting as he did, and Deadpool groaned, deep and rumbly, in response. Then he was smiling into the kiss, his tongue tickling Peter’s lips before slipping between them.

 

He teased and chased Peter’s tongue expertly, though almost lazily. As if he was _savoring_ kissing Peter.

 

As if kissing Peter was _something_ _to be savored_.

 

It felt as if Peter was standing at the edge of a high precipice, nothing but the swirling unknown below him and the life he’d always known behind him. And he could either stay on the edge and eventually step off . . . or turn around and keep on going as he had been. Alone.

 

No . . . fucking _lonely_. So . . . _incredibly lonely_. . . .

 

 _No. No more_ , he thought suddenly, turning his back on life as he’d always lived it. With a soft sob, he surrendered completely to Deadpool’s kiss, to his expertise, to his _desire._ Peter let the other man lead him through the kiss like it was a dance, a hesitant, fluttering sort of yearning building within him as he relearned what it was to _be_ _with_ someone intimately. He let Deadpool shift them slightly, so he could push Peter flat on the bed and lean over him. As their kiss grew a bit more heated and urgent, and those flutters and tingles began to turn into a burn that raced across his skin and throughout his groin. Peter’s hands started to get ideas of their own. One reluctantly settled on Deadpool’s waist, before sliding ‘round to his muscular ass, and squeezing tentatively.

 

That was good for a long, drawn out groan and the stutter of Deadpool’s talented tongue against his own, and Deadpool pulling back a little to pant on Peter’s lips and whisper another overwhelmed: “ _Fuck_.”

 

“Totally on the table, if, you know . . . you _want to_ ,” Peter murmured hopefully against Deadpool’s frankly _amazing_ mouth. “If . . . you don’t _mind_?”

 

The former-merc was so shocked, he actually leaned back as if to search Peter’s eyes. But Peter knew Deadpool couldn’t see in the dark as well as he could . . . that for him, Peter was just a pale blur. So he bobbed up a little to steal a kiss that was short, but surprisingly sweet.

 

“ _Don’t mind_? For _serious_ , Petey?” Deadpool whispered as if he was holding his breath. But his exhalations on Peter’s mouth were warm and rushed, and his thumb was still gentle and soothing on Peter’s cheek.

 

As a wave of something too tender to be mere desire swept through him, Peter reached up to cup Deadpool’s cheek in his own hand, his palm landing on scarred, surprisingly soft, but dry skin. Deadpool made a distressed sound and was quick to catch Peter’s hand, as if to pull it away.

 

“Don’t,” they both said at the same time, and Deadpool’s jaw tightened. But Peter smiled.

 

“I’ve never touched your face before,” Peter said as if Deadpool didn’t know this.

 

“Yeah.” Deadpool sounded uncomfortable, his hand still on Peter’s, callused and feather-light, but still. “Yeah, I know. It’s not—I mean, it’s bad enough you’ve _seen_ it, right? Some of it, anyway. You shouldn’t have to—to _feel_ this shit show, y’know? It’s not—”

 

“It’s _fine_ , Wade,” Peter breathed, leaning up for another kiss. This one was _desperate_ —at least _Deadpool’s_ side of it. As if he thought he’d better store up the sensation in case he never got to kiss Peter again. But Peter was _pretty_ sure that they’d be doing this a _lot_ more. At least if _he_ could help it.

 

So Peter took control of the kiss gradually, slowing it, gentling it, letting Deadpool damn near plunder his mouth at first, while he squeezed the other man’s ass and stroked his own thumb along Deadpool’s cheek. But Deadpool was nothing, if not quick on the uptake, and was soon following Peter’s lead, his kiss slipping back into that lazy, unhurried exploration that had so tantalized Peter before.

 

Those tingles and flutters, that jolting feeling shook Peter’s system once again and he shivered hard, his hand sliding up to the small of Deadpool’s back and pulling down on him. The other man took the hint and carefully settled on top of Peter, still bearing 90% of his weight on one arm. But Peter wasn’t having _that_. He gave another shove to Deadpool’s back, with some spidey-strength behind it, and the former-merc collapsed on top of Peter with a startled _oof_!

 

His body was solid muscle and delightfully weighty—though not enough to give Peter any trouble breathing—and furnace-hot. He was also _hard_. And _huge_ with it, pressing between their abdomens. Deadpool groaned again at the press of their bodies together—at the squeezing of his cock between them—and buried his face in Peter’s neck, his breath gusting hot and fast on Peter’s damp skin. “Petey. . . .”

 

“You’re _really_ _hard_ ,” Peter sighed in Deadpool’s ear, licking the lobe, which was the only part not covered by the mask. In his arms, Deadpool shuddered so hard, it felt like a mini-earthquake. Peter chuckled, nibbling the lobe he’d just licked. “And so _big_.”

 

“Ah . . . ah,” Deadpool chuffed, sounding almost pained. Then his lips were gliding across Peter’s skin as he spoke actual words. “God, Peter, you’re _so_ —” he moaned softly, his hips pumping twice, slowly, his covered cock dragging against Peter’s stomach. Peter’s hand slid back down to Deadpool’s ass, encouraging the other man to keep doing _exactly_ that, even as Peter, also starting to get hard, lifted his own hips and pelvis to meet the half-reluctant thrusts. “ _Jesus_ , Baby Boy . . . you feel so fucking _good_.”

 

“Mm . . . so do you.”

 

Deadpool’s body pressed Peter’s into the thin mattress with one powerful thrust, and kept him pinned for long moments, panting against Peter’s pulse. Then he was releasing Peter slowly, letting Peter thrust up against him once more.

 

“We . . . I mean, _you_ don’t have to do _anything_ you don’t want . . . you realize that, right? I’m—pretty damn shocked you even let me _kiss_ you. And over the moon about it, too.” Deadpool leaned back to look down at Peter, who smiled, even though Deadpool probably couldn’t make it out in the darkness. “I’m really _not_ expecting or hoping—couldn’t _ask_ for anything more than what we’ve already— _holy fuck_!”

 

Peter chuckled when Deadpool gasped profanely, but that didn’t stop him from fondling Deadpool’s dick—which he’d grabbed and which had occasioned that blasphemous gasp—through the damn leather pants. Then, annoyed with the pants and fighting not to simply rip them off Deadpool’s body, Peter scrabbled his way past the waist of them, down past the underwear Deadpool was most definitely _not_ wearing, and grabbed a hot, _heavy_ , damp handful of cock.

 

“Oh, _Petey_ —oh, jeez!”

 

“I think you _are_ asking for more, Wade,” Peter said, dilating his pupils even further, until he could make out Deadpool’s scars clearly, and even count the teeth the other man was gritting as he apparently fought not to come while Peter swiped his thumb repeatedly across the slippery-wet head of his cock. “I think you’ve _been_ asking for a long time and I . . . I maybe didn’t want to realize it. Because I was too scared or not ready or . . . whatever.” Shrugging, Peter slid his hand down Deadpool’s girthy shaft, briefly tangling his fingers in sparse, coarse pubes. “Whatever was keeping me from this—from _you_ —is an obstacle I _don’t_ want to tolerate, anymore.”

 

“What about Osborn?” Deadpool asked ruefully, as if he didn’t even want to bring up Peter’s ex, but felt he _had_ to. “Maybe _he’s_ that obstacle you’re talkin’ about. Maybe . . . maybe you _are_ still hung up on that obsessive little rich-boy.”

 

Peter’s hand slowed to a stop on Deadpool and his other hand left Deadpool’s arm to cup his cheek again. He took a moment to think about Deadpool’s possibly valid point . . . then he was smiling into the kiss he bobbed up again to give. Deadpool returned it urgently, once more, pushing his cock in and out of Peter’s grip, fast and a bunch of times, before easing into a more sedate rhythm.

 

“You know what I was thinking, like, every three minutes when I was on that awful date with Jason, tonight?” Peter asked. Deadpool growled quietly.

 

“Do I even wanna?”

 

Laughing, Peter slid his hand out of Deadpool’s pants, causing a bereft moan, and then he was putting both his arms around Deadpool’s neck and pulling the other man down on top of him again. This time, Deadpool’s full weight pressed him into the mattress without pause, and Deadpool leaned in to nuzzle Peter’s neck while grinding against Peter’s hard-on.

 

It was getting a bit difficult to _keep_ a train of thought, let alone _express_ it, but what was on Peter’s mind—and in his _heart_ — _had_ to be said before they went any further. “I was thinking . . . that I’d have much rather gone on patrol with you, than on a date with a guy whose jokes I felt _obliged_ to laugh at, but which I didn’t really find funny. That I’d rather be eating chimichangas with _you_ at _Taco Bueno!_ , sitting in the parking lot on the hood of somebody’s car and bullshitting till dawn, than out at _Bella Francesca_ talking about post-modernism and Julian Schnabel.”

 

“Who the fuck’s _that_?” Deadpool demanded, sitting back a little. “Some other GQ motherfucker that’s pantin’ after you, too?”

 

Snorting, Peter let a wave of fondness sweep over him at Deadpool’s obvious jealousy and possessiveness. “No, Wade, he’s an artist. A very _famous_ artist. Never even met him.”

 

“Oh.” Mollified, Deadpool went back to nuzzling Peter’s neck, alternately licking at his skin with a raspy tongue. “ _Fuck_ , you taste _good_ , Petey . . . all salty _and_ sweet . . . like salted caramel.”

 

Peter flushed and grinned up at the ceiling, clutching at Deadpool tighter. “You’re _so_ weird.”

 

“Am not.”

 

“Are, too—infinity times infinity, and to the infinite power,” Peter added playfully, then he was gasping and murmuring: “ _So good, Wade . . . so_ good,” as Deadpool returned that ear-nibbling with bites that were just this side of too sharp. It was an erogenous zone Peter hadn’t even _known_ he’d had. No one had _ever_ taken the time to _discover_ his erogenous zones, let alone find them so quickly.

 

“Mm, Petey . . . could eat you right up. . . .”

 

“Do . . . _please_ , do.”

 

Deadpool was the one to chuckle, this time. “So . . . you were, uh, really thinkin’ about _me_ while you were on your shitty date?”

 

The other man’s voice was uncertain and once again too casual. Peter’s legs wrapped themselves around Deadpool’s powerful thighs without orders from his brain, which was good, since Peter’s brain could barely hold on to a single _thought_ , let alone direct his body on what it already knew how to do instinctively.

 

“Yeah. And I can’t believe it took me this long to notice that whenever I’m bored or stressed or at loose-ends, I always wind up thinking about how much I’d rather be hanging out with _you_. Playing video games, watching movies—even getting the shit beat out of me while we’re fighting bad guys.” Peter shook his head, then leaned it down against Deadpool’s, his teeth finding purchase in the edges of the mask. For a moment, he debated pulling it off . . . then, he released it. Deadpool would or wouldn’t take it off for Peter in his own time. And until then, Peter would be patient. “Even when I’m having a good time with friends or with Aunt May, I’m always thinking, in the back of my mind, how much _more_ fun I’d have if _you_ were there with me, cracking lame jokes and saying inappropriate things about my ass.”

 

“Baby Boy, when it comes to an ass as fine, firm, and fuckable as _yours_ , _nothin’s_ inappropriate,” Deadpool said with touching sincerity and Peter giggled helplessly, trying to stifle said giggles in Deadpool’s thick shoulder.

 

“See? _That’s_ the kind of thing I mean.” Peter snorted a little and blushed. “That’s _exactly_ what I miss when we’re not together.” Sighing as his giggles tapered off, Peter clutched at Deadpool again, clinging literally, affixing himself to the former-merc’s leather-clad body. “I wasn’t comparing and contrasting Jason or the other guys who asked me out to _Harry_ . . . I was comparing and contrasting them to _you_ . . . and they always came up short, Wade. _Always_.”

 

Deadpool released Peter’s ear lobe and levered himself up on his left arm to look down at Peter.

 

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,” he finally mumbled, low and strangely vulnerable-sounding. “Can’t see those pretty, dark eyes to read what’s in ‘em.”

 

“I’m not joking. I _wouldn’t_. Not about . . . _this_.” Peter reached for the lamp automatically, so Deadpool could look into his eyes and _believe_ him . . . but Deadpool caught his hand, pulling it to his mouth and kissing the palm in a courtly, old-fashioned way that made Peter’s heart beat faster.

 

“Don’t,” Deadpool repeated softly, and Peter nodded. Then said: “Okay.”

 

Deadpool kissed his hand again and Peter brushed his fingers across those sinfully soft lips.

 

“I don’t care about the scars, Wade,” Peter said quietly. Deadpool bit his lip, then squeezed Peter’s hand and pulled it back around his neck, to join its mate.

 

“But _I do_ , Pete,” he replied miserably. “I just got you after fucking _years_ of . . . _fuck_ , baby, I just don’t wanna scare you off.”

 

“Never happen.”

 

“You don’t know that, Baby Boy.”

 

Peter sat up to kiss Deadpool silent. This time, he was the one to make it urgent and intense, exploring Deadpool’s mouth almost violently, pulling the other man back on top of him till they were prone, once more, and writhing desperately against each other.

 

“I _know_ , Wade,” Peter panted between kisses. “ _Please_ trust me: I know. At last, I _know_.”

 

“Pete—” Deadpool’s voice was sad and uncertain once more. Peter shut him up with another brief kiss.

 

“Too much talk, not enough naked,” he decided tersely, biting Deadpool’s tongue until Deadpool was trying to devour his face. Peter huffed a laugh through his nose as Deadpool pulled them both into an upright position, so that he was sitting on his heels and Peter was straddling his lap. Deadpool’s hands immediately went to Peter’s ass, where they squeezed hard and possessively before trying to find their way down the back of Peter’s Dockers. “I _really_ need you to rip my fucking clothes off, Wade.”

 

Peter could almost hear Deadpool’s eyebrows quirk up, and he could definitely feel the mouth against his own curl with amusement.

 

“ _Rip_ ‘em off, huh?” Deadpool tore the back of Peter’s pants and boxer briefs open, baring Peter to the slight chill of the room and the feverish heat of his hands. “Like that?”

 

“ _Exactly_ like that,” Peter purred, tucking his face into Deadpool’s throat and biting hickies into it.

 

Deadpool swore fervently, his hands kneading Peter’s ass intently, fingers dipping between Peter’s cheeks as if he didn’t quite _dare_ let them seek out Peter’s anticipatory entrance.

 

“Jesus, Pete,” he muttered, sounding awed and a little dismayed as he removed his hands. As if Peter had told him _not_ to touch. “Fuck, you’re so _hot_ , there. Bet you’re like a _furnace_ _inside_.”

 

“Only one way to find out.” Peter looked up and nuzzled Deadpool’s nose with his own. It turned into a surprisingly gentle kiss, one that was more about assurance than anything else. And when it ended naturally, Deadpool was shaking in Peter’s arms. “Please, Wade . . . I _want_ you to touch me there. To be _inside_ me. To make love to me.”

 

Making a strangled noise, Deadpool leaned his forehead against Peter’s. “You _sure_ , Peter? We can stop, even now, if you want.”

 

“I just _told_ you what I want,” Peter said sanguinely. “Rip my clothes off, touch me, finger me open, then push this great big cock of yours into me.” He ground against Deadpool’s hardness until the other man was swearing and panting again. “Lather, rinse, repeat.”

 

“You really _want_ —”

 

“For you to fill me up? _Yes_. I _miss_ that feeling, you know?” Peter smiled, letting his lips tease and brush Deadpool’s. “The feeling of being _so full_ , it’s like I’m being riven in two . . . like there’s cock in me so deep, it’s bumping my fucking spleen. Not that I ever really got that with _Harry_ —not to be mean, but he wasn’t quite . . . big enough to really make me feel _full_ —but I bet I’ll get it with _you_ , Wade. You’re so. Fucking. _Thick_.”

 

“ _Fuck_ , Petey.” Deadpool hissed and grabbed Peter’s ass again, hard enough that he’d probably leave bruises. It _felt_ . . . _amazing_.

 

“And you know what _else_ I _really_ miss? Having someone come inside me, hot and wet and a _lot_.” Peter sighed wistfully as Deadpool kissed and panted on his jaw. “I mean, I kinda get off when someone finishes on my back or on my face, too, but—”

 

“ _Petey_!” Deadpool sat back in utter shock, gaping and struggling for words, obviously scandalized. Peter’s smile was absolutely _evilicious_ , if he did say so, himself. “You—you—”

 

“After we’ve done it the good, old-fashioned way a few times, I _fully_ plan on sucking you off, letting you come on my face, then having you lick me clean as we make out,” Peter casually informed a still gaping Deadpool and shrugged. “But before that, I _don’t_ want you to come unless you’re inside me, got it?” Deadpool nodded, mouth still hanging open. “Good. I want you to make me _yours_. To fill me, then cover me in _you_.”

 

Deadpool, still speechless, nodded again. Peter smiled, and decided to tease a little.

 

“So! How’s that sound, hmm? Wanna fill me up and stretch me out?” Peter punctuated his words with calculatedly hard thrusts. “Till I’m all loose and sloppy and _dripping wet_ from lube, come, and your _cock_? So that when you’re ready to go again, you can just _slide right in_ and go to town?”

 

Letting out a harsh, fast breath, Deadpool shook his head. “Baby Boy, you’re . . . fulla surprises, tonight, I must say. Gonna be fulla something else _very_ soon,” he added, smirking slowly and tilting his head in consideration. “Hey, speaking of lube—”

 

“Top drawer of the night table, near the back. _Big_ tube.”

 

Deadpool wasted no time retrieving the lube and pushing Peter back down to the bed, then tearing off the rest of Peter’s work-clothes, tossing the scraps over his shoulder merrily, humming _Three Little Maids From School_ as he did so.

 

When Peter was naked before him, probably just a pale, attenuated gleam to Deadpool’s eyes, he spread Peter’s long, lean legs and pushed them wide open.

 

“You’ll go deeper if I’m on my stomach,” Peter said, coming over shy again. Deadpool shifted almost uncomfortably and shrugged again.

 

“Can’t kiss you if that pretty face is buried in a pillow, now, can I?” His voice was tight and tense, as if he was admitting something intensely private. Peter blinked and smiled, opening his arms.

 

“Guess not,” he agreed softly, his smile turning into a grin so big and toothy, Deadpool _had_ to see it. “C’mere.”

 

Deadpool laid down in Peter’s arms, kissing him gently, but thoroughly, stealing a pillow from the head of the futon—Peter had three of them . . . big, fluffy pillows had _always_ been his Achilles’ heel—and urging Peter to buck up so he could slide the pillow under his ass. Then Deadpool was running his hot, callused hand up and down Peter’s chest, pausing to pinch his left nipple _almost_ too hard, until Peter was moaning and his cock was hugging his abdomen, precome leaking down his shaft and dripping on his stomach.

 

“You’re so _responsive_ , Baby Boy— _lookit_ you . . . gorgeous as _fuck_ ,” Deadpool murmured approvingly, his hand drifting lower, until it rested on Peter’s inner thigh, close to his balls, but not touching them. Peter whined, trying to maneuver Deadpool’s hand to where he needed it. But Deadpool merely chuckled and lightly smacked Peter’s thigh. “Ah-ah . . . behave,” he said kindly, leaning down to suck a wet kiss onto the tip of Peter’s cock, humming his approval once more when Peter made a strangled, garbled sound that was trying to be Deadpool's name. “I _know_ you want me to touch that pretty cock of yours, Petey. God _knows_ I _wanna_. Wanna _taste_ it and feel it bruise the back of my throat, too. You got _no_ _idea_ how bad I want that . . . but I think, this _first_ time, you’re gonna come for me _just_ from my cock in you. Without me goin’ _near_ your dick.”

 

“Oh, God, _Wade!_ ” Peter practically wailed, spreading his legs even wider, his cock tingling and burning, his balls full and heavy and aching with his need to _come_ . . . though he wasn’t close to the edge _yet_. “You can’t—you _gotta_ —” Deadpool flicked open the tube of lube as Peter stammered, grinning behind his mask as he squirted a generous amount onto his fingers. “ _C’mon_ , and _touch me_!”

 

“Nope. You’re not callin’ the shots, anymore, Baby Boy,” Deadpool said almost apologetically, though he was clearly still grinning. He smeared the lube slowly, contemplatively over his fingers, warming it. “I’ll touch you when I touch you, and you’ll come _how_ I say, _when_ I say. And if I think you’re jumpin’ the gun, I’ll edge you till you’re _weeping_ for relief. You know what edging is, right, Petey?”

 

Peter nodded dumbly, eyes wide as saucers. Deadpool tilted his head again.

 

“Not good enough, sweetheart. I need an out-loud _yea_ or _nay_.”

 

Peter opened his mouth to obey—without hesitation, eager both to please and to get this show on the road—and exhaled shakily. “I’ve never been so turned-on in my fucking _life_ ,” is what came out, and Deadpool laughed, long and loud, till his shoulders shook with it.

 

“God, Petey, you’re . . . absolutely _perfect_. _Never_ change.”

 

“Wasn’t planning to,” Peter affirmed bemusedly. Then he let his legs falls shamelessly wider, giving Deadpool an eyeful. “ _Please_?

 

“Good. Such a _good_ boy,” Deadpool murmured tenderly. “Now relax . . . I’m gonna open you up nice and slow.”

 

Swallowing, Peter nodded again, his eyes fluttering shut as Deadpool’s fingers slipped behind his balls, over his perineum, lingering there until Peter began to babble pleas interspersed with swears. Then those big, blunt fingers were teasing at his hole, pressing against it and alternately circling the rim.

 

“Gonna taste that pretty little pucker _real_ soon,” Deadpool promised in voice so rough and hoarse with _need_ , Peter blushed and moaned, trying to impale himself on Deadpool’s index finger.

 

“Please, Wade . . . _please_. . . .”

 

“Well, since you’re asking so _nice_ and all—got _such good_ manners, Petey. . . .” Deadpool’s finger stabbed into him part-way, fast and hard, causing Peter to arch up off the bed with a long, wavering cry that was equal parts pleasure and pain.

 

It’d been a _long_ time since he’d had any fingers besides his own in him, and his fingers were _markedly_ slimmer than Deadpool’s.

 

“Jesus-fuck-you’re-tight!” Deadpool breathed, sounding almost dismayed again in his utter shock. “Not even sure I’ll _fit_ in you, Baby Boy!”

 

“You _will_ , Wade, yes, _please_ , fuck, _you’ll fit_ , just . . . _fuck_ , _please_. . . .”

 

Deadpool bit his lip and swooped down to kiss Peter reassuringly. “Okay, baby . . . calm down before you sprain somethin’ important. I’ll just have to be _extra_ thorough opening you up. Gonna have to take my time, but that’s fine . . . I’ll _make it fit_ even if it takes me all night and half the morning.”

 

Then Deadpool was carefully easing his finger deeper into Peter, who tried his best to relax. Deadpool pulled out slowly and thrust back in nearly as slow, kissing the tip of Peter’s nose before he was ducking down to take Peter’s wilting cock into his mouth.

 

“Oh!” Peter’s eyes slipped tight-shut and he shivered as Deadpool’s hot mouth closed around him, taking him deep before sliding partially off to tongue the head of his cock and toy with the slit. “Wade, I—I thought . . . you _said_ —you wouldn’t _touch_ —”

 

Deadpool hummed, making Peter moan and tears leak out of his eyes, before pulling off his cock with an obscene, slurping _pop!_

 

“Sometimes, plans change, Baby Boy. Ya gotta roll with what life tosses at ya, dig?” Then he was grinning as he descended on Peter’s cock again, kissing the wet shaft with a loud smacking noise, then moving lower to mouth at Peter’s balls. Peter’s eyes nearly rolled back into his head and he barely noticed when Deadpool sped up and intensified his thrusts. Eternities rolled by with Peter lost in pleasure—even though Deadpool was purposely avoiding his prostate, between the mouth on his cock and the pleasant sensation of being filled and fucked, even if it was just with a finger, it was more than enough to keep Peter moaning and gasping—until Deadpool pulled out one time, and didn’t immediately push back in.

 

Peter had just opened his blurry eyes and slack mouth, meaning to ask if everything was okay, when he heard a quiet squirt. A few moments later, _two_ of Deadpool’s big fingers—liberally lubed—pushed slowly, but implacably into him.

 

“ _Wade_. . . .” he whimpered, feeling skewered in a not entirely pleasant way.

 

“ _Shh_ , baby . . . I got ya,” Deadpool crooned, pausing when his fingers were entirely seated in Peter’s spasming hole. He waited several minutes for Peter to stop shaking and to _relax_ , before scissoring his fingers very slightly, very slowly. “ _There_ we go, Petey . . . yeah, you’re _so_ good . . . so _beautiful_ . . . love you _so_ much. . . .”

 

“ _Unh_ ,” Peter grunted, spreading his legs a little wider, still, instinctively clenching his aching muscles around Deadpool’s fingers, his eyes wide and focused on the lenses of Deadpool’s mask, drawing both strength and comfort from the familiar sight, since he couldn’t see Deadpool’s face and really never had.

 

“So good, Petey . . . gonna make you feel _real_ good, just . . . lemme _find_. . . .”

 

“JESUS!” Peter yelped suddenly, and Deadpool’s questing, scissoring fingers stilled for a few moments, and the former-merc smiled smugly.

 

“Yeah, _there_ it is! _Fuck!_ ” Deadpool sounded proud of himself. Then he brushed that spot in Peter again—it’d _never_ been like _this_ with _Harry_ . . . Harry had been more of a _fuck hard, shoot fast, catch his breath, then give a reach-around_ sort of guy. He’d never really bothered himself with Peter’s _prostate_ —and Peter wailed again, in a helpless, desperate way he hadn’t known he’d been capable of. “Like a fuckin’ _banshee_ , babe . . . that’s so fuckin’ _hot_!”

 

Deadpool widened the range of his scissoring fingers, pushing deeper and harder into Peter with successive thrusts, making certain to brush that sweet-spot frequently, until Peter’s whimpers and grunts turned into moans and pleas once more.

 

When Deadpool added the third finger, Peter tensed up for a few seconds . . . then relaxed as Deadpool teased his prostate some more, putting increasing pressure on it. When Peter’s hard-on was once again _hard_ and _on_ , Deadpool began fucking him in earnest with those three fingers, debating with his Boxes—aloud—whether to add a fourth.

 

“Yeah, Yellow, _I_ wanna be inside him, too . . . but not if I’m gonna fuckin’ _hurt_ him . . . I mean, it’s _gonna_ hurt him, but I don’t wanna _destroy_ him! You _feel_ how _tight_ he is—White’s right: four fingers, it is,” Deadpool decided solemnly.

 

“Wait—” Peter gulped out and felt Deadpool refocus on him instantly, his fingers slowing to a stop, but not pulling out. “I . . . I don’t know how much longer I can _do_ this, Wade . . . I _really_ want you inside me . . . even if it hurts.”

 

Deadpool frowned, easing his fingers out carefully. Peter hissed as his muscles complained, then tightened around nothing. He felt _empty_ and didn’t like the feeling one bit.

 

“Peter . . . I’m not being a total douche when I say . . . I’ve got a pretty big cock. Not _circus-sideshow_ big, but . . . yeah, kinda circus-sideshow big. And I don’t wanna . . . _damage_ you.” Deadpool sighed, but went on before Peter could say anything. “I know you heal faster than the average person, because of your spidey-mojo, but you don’t heal _near_ fast enough for me to be plowin’ you like the north forty. It won’t be _fun_ and it _will_ damage you, Pete.”

 

Peter’s eyebrows lifted and he swallowed again. “Can I . . . can I see what we’re working with?”

 

Deadpool bit his lip once more, then hooked his thumb in his pants before shoving them down to his knees. Peter’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open like some village’s missing idiot.

 

 _Well, fuck_ , he thought.

 

Deadpool shifted about on his knees, radiating discomfort. “I, uh . . . I know what you’re thinkin’, Baby Boy. It _ain’t_ pretty. Not at all. And it leans to the left, a little. And it ain’t _cut_ and gorgeous, like yours. But—”

 

“You have _no idea_ what I’m thinking, Wade,” Peter informed him absently, then shook himself to regain some sort of mental acuity. But he couldn’t stop staring at Deadpool’s dick. “You have no idea how . . . fucking _sexy_ your cock is. It’s better than _pretty_. It’s got _character_. And I _like_ that it leans a little to the left. And I _love_ that you still have your foreskin. I _fore_ see a _lot_ of _fore_ skin-play in our future, for sure.”

 

Deadpool’s mouth dropped open, too. “ _Seriously_?”

 

“ _Yes_ , seriously. Foreskin is, uh, kind of a kink of mine. . . .” Peter blushed, imagining the way Deadpool would gape if he saw Peter’s porn collection. His jaw’d probably fall off. But for now, Deadpool was shaking his head.

 

“No, I meant . . . about _us_ . . . having a future—a real, together- _future_ in which . . . foreskin-play is a thing? Where we have sex regularly and maybe . . . maybe even go on dates and stuff?”

 

Peter smiled and sat up, ignoring the minor twinge in his lower back, and wrapped his arms around Deadpool’s neck, looking him right in the lenses.

 

“I am,” he said plainly. “Only if that’s something you’d want with _me_ , I mean. I don’t really do casual sex or hook-ups. The only people I’ve ever slept with were people I was in love or falling in love with, so. . . .”

 

“How many?” Deadpool suddenly asked and Peter flushed again.

 

“Well . . . including Harry . . . that would be . . . two people,” he admitted, embarrassed at his own boring, brief, _vanilla_ sex-life.

 

Deadpool, however, didn’t _seem_ disappointed . . . only nonplussed. “Can I ask . . . who was the other person?”

 

Peter smiled a little sadly. “My high school crush, Flash Thompson. I, uh . . . had been in love with him since we were in fifth grade. And he . . . well. We had sex a lot, after we started high school. A _lot_. But I don’t think I ever mattered to him as much as he did to me. After high school was over, he never contacted me again. Not even to say good-bye. Just went away to school after spending the summer backpacking around Europe, and I never saw him after that—after graduation.”

 

“Oh,” Deadpool said, sounding sorry he’d asked. “Jeez, I’m sorry, Petey. Sorry you got hurt. But _fuck_ that asshole if he doesn’t know a good thing when it’s blinkin’ beautiful brown eyes at him. His loss is _my_ gain. Hell, I should put that fucker on my Christmas card list.”

 

And Deadpool sounded so smug again, that Peter laughed, the old hurt fading rather quickly. He leaned in to kiss Deadpool tenderly.

 

“You’re _so_ awesome . . . but _please_ don’t send my high school fuck-buddy Christmas cards,” Peter whispered on his lips, then he was slipping out of Deadpool’s arms and splaying himself on the bed once more, legs drawn out and up, hands behind his knees. Deadpool stared fixedly at Peter’s wet, lube-shiny asshole, mouth open, tongue swiping his lips repeatedly.

 

“Okay. Right. No Christmas cards. _Negatory_ on the Christmas cards,” he said absently, fisting his dick tight and slow, precome beading up at the tip and running down the shaft to be smeared by his fingers. Then he stopped, grabbed the lube, squirted a good bit into his hand—giggling a little at the loud, farting-sound the tube made . . . Peter rolled his eyes—and slathered it on his cock, unknowingly putting on a _hell_ of a show.

 

Sooner, rather than later, he left off stroking himself, leaving his cock to stand up proud, hard, and brick-red—and leaning a little to the left—to stare at Peter in deep consideration.

 

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he said again, his voice soft and grave. Peter smiled as confidently as he could, trying his best to calm and reassure them both.

 

“Oh, _fuck_ , you’re so _hot—so sexy_. I can’t wait to have you _in_ me. _Please_ , Wade . . . don’t make me wait any longer,” he breathed, eyeing Deadpool’s thick, long, _monster_ of a cock. He licked his suddenly dry lips and met those somehow expressive white lenses. “You’re _not_ gonna hurt me. _Much_ , anyway. Or in a way I won’t _like_.” Peter’s eyebrows lifted again and his smile turned wry. “You won’t hurt me . . . but, uh . . . you’re gonna fucking _wreck_ me, aren’t you?”

 

Deadpool’s answering smile was small, hesitant, and sort of hapless. “Kinda? Yeah, probably.”

 

Peter nodded and arched his back to work a few kinks out of it, and Deadpool groaned, touching his own cock again before reaching out to brush his index finger around Peter’s hole.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Peter breathed huskily, his doubt and trepidation fading with every stroke of Deadpool's finger. Every cell of Peter’s body yearned up toward Deadpool’s and he swallowed reflexively. “ _Please_.”

 

“All you ever had to do was ask, you know,” Deadpool said in that grave tone once more. Then he was pushing Peter’s legs _wider_ and his _ass cheeks_ wider, and guiding himself to the waiting, twitching ring of muscle between them. Peter gasped, his eyes turning to saucers yet again as Deadpool pressed against him, slippery and hard, then began the slow, steady push _in_.

 

“Petey. . . !” Deadpool mumbled, one hand still guiding his cock, the other still holding Peter open as he gritted his teeth and kept moving forward incrementally. He eased his way inside carefully, riding out spasms and whimpers and grunts, alike, until he was halfway inside Peter, whose hands were bunched tight in the sheets, his face screwed into a flushed, sweating mess. “God, _Petey_ , _baby_. . . lemme see you touch yourself—lemme see you touch that pretty cock . . . _fuck_ what I said before!”

 

Near mindless in a place that was as much pleasure as it was pain, Peter obeyed, touching himself the way he liked, till he was harder than ever, and the pain of Deadpool’s huge cock became the background to the wonderful aria that was being so _exquisitely_ _full_. And Deadpool wasn’t even _all_ _the way in_ , yet.

 

 _Well, that needs to be remedied_ , Peter thought wildly, wantonly, throwing caution to the wind and releasing his legs to wrap them around Deadpool’s waist.

 

“ _Wreck me_ , Wade,” Peter begged breathlessly, then tightened his legs around Deadpool and _yanked_ his lover down _hard_. Deadpool fell forward on top of Peter, incidentally sliding home in one final thrust, forcing a startled wail from them both.

 

Panting, gasping, groaning . . . neither of them moved for long minutes. Then Peter wrapped weak, rubbery arms around Deadpool’s neck, pressing his feverish cheek to Deadpool’s head. Deadpool was still buried face-first in Peter’s throat, his breath humid and stuttering.

 

His cheeks were wetter than even sweat could account for and Peter grew alarmed for the other man, despite the sharp, hot pain rocketing through his insides as they struggled to accommodate such a large intrusion.

 

“You okay, Wade?” Peter’s voice was as weak as his arms, reedy and thin. Deadpool snorted.

 

“Shouldn’t that be _my_ line, Baby Boy?” He sounded shaken and broken-open. “If I move, I’ll hurt you even more. And I’ll probably _come_ while I’m doin’ it, you feel so _good_. I . . . I don’t wanna be _that guy,_ Pete.”

 

“You _won’t_ , Wade. You can _do_ this, just . . . go slow and think of Regina.” Peter kissed Deadpool’s mask-covered temple. “C’mon, baby . . . please move a little?”

 

Deadpool sat up just enough to look into Peter’s eyes, then he took a deep breath and began to move, pulling out slowly. It felt as if most of Peter’s internal organs went with him, but at least they didn’t go _far_ before Deadpool was easing back in. Then, after a worried pause, out again then in again. Lather, rinse, repeat . . . until the crampy pain roiling through Peter lessened, dulled, began to fade.

 

Then Deadpool swiveled his hips experimentally, frowning in concentration, making brief, aborted little thrusts, different than the steadily lengthening ones that had come before them. A minute or two later, Peter was gasping, his fingers clawing at Deadpool’s back.

 

“ _Right there! Right there_!” he panted, bitten-down nails nonetheless digging into leather. Deadpool, who’d still been watching his face intently, smiled and stole a promising kiss. And then, he _really_ began to _move_.

 

#

 

Peter woke to the scent of pancakes and bacon, eggs and coffee, and frowned.

 

“I don’t have _any_ of that stuff in my apartment,” he mumbled blearily to himself, too achy in too many places to even _think_ about sitting up, just yet. “Well, except for the coffee. Which doesn’t usually smell _this_ good.”

 

He opened his stuck-together eyes, having to pry the lids apart. Then he blinked till the sunlight streaming into the eastern-facing windows didn’t hurt his eyes, and rolled his heavy head toward the kitchenette.

 

There, in full costume, stood a flapkack-flipping Deadpool, shaking his ass—and _what_ an ass—while singing to himself. The counter that separated the kitchenette from the rest of the apartment was loaded with stacks of pancakes, heaps of bacon, piles of scrambled eggs, and two big, steaming mugs. Mugs that _Peter_ didn’t remember buying.

 

_“John saw that number/ Way in the middle of the air,/ Cryin': ‘Holy, holy to the Lord!’/ Old John the baptist, old John divine,/ Frogs and snakes are gonna get John, this time./ God told the angel: ‘Go, see about John.’/ So he flew from the pit,/ With the moon ‘round his waist/ Gathered wind in his fists/ Sewed the stars ‘round his wrists/ Cryin': ‘Holy, holy to the Lord!’”_

 

Peter listened to the rest of the song—Deadpool had a surprisingly compelling voice, raspy, enthusiastic, and mostly on-key—smiling a little as he whipped the blanket off his body. He didn’t even have to glance down at himself to know that he was _totally_ _gross_ : covered in dried come and lube, as well as healing scratches and welts.

 

Smile widening dreamily, he rubbed at a patch of dried come on his left ribcage, then gathered himself and sat up. The resulting groan made Deadpool glance over his shoulder at the futon. Once more, the mask was pulled all the way down.

 

 _In his own time,_ Peter reminded himself.

 

“Heyya, Baby Boy! You slept _late_!” Deadpool said warmly, watching Peter stretch, and yawn till his jaw cracked. Then Peter swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing at the cold of the scuffed wood floor, and stood. His legs were wobbly and the muscles in his thighs immediately began to complain. (The less said about his sore, throbbing—sadly _empty_ —ass, the better.) Peter whined a bit and sat back down heavily, wincing again. In seconds, Deadpool was kneeling at his feet, looking up into his face, concern shining out despite the mask.

 

“You okay, Petey?”

 

Peter thought about the question seriously . . . then found a grin that he didn’t even try to restrain. “Never better, Wade. _Really_. You, uh . . . didn’t have to make me _breakfast_ . . . or buy the stuff with which to _make_ me breakfast,” he added, blushing. Deadpool reached up and brushed Peter’s floppy, messy hair off his forehead.

 

“I wanted to,” he said simply, leaning up to plant a lingering, mask-covered kiss on Peter’s forehead.

 

“Mm.” Peter hummed contentedly, _happily_. He almost didn’t recognize the feeling for what it was, it’d been so long since he’d felt it. “What time is it?”

 

“Last I checked, it was almost ten-thirty.”

 

“Wow . . . I am _massively_ late for . . . being fired.” Peter sighed. Deadpool chuckled.

 

“Nah, I called around the _Bugle_ ‘til I got some chick in HR. Told her you were sick, today. _Contagious_ and shit, and stayin’ home to rest.” He shook his head. “Nosy thing, too. She kept askin’ who I was and sayin’ she had to hear it from _your_ lips that you were callin’ out. She also said somethin’ about a doctor’s note—which I could totally get from Bruce or Helen for you, no problem-o. But what a _bitch_ , though.”

 

“Ugh. That sounds like Marge Hiller. She’s a stickler for rules.” Peter rolled his eyes. He’d probably be taking Deadpool up on the bogus doctor’s note just to keep Marge off his back. “What’d you tell her?”

 

Deadpool shrugged nonchalantly, but fidgeted a bit. “I, uh . . . said I was your boyfriend and that you’d authorized me to speak on your behalf. And that if she didn’t like it, she could call the A.C.L.U., or somethin'.”

 

Peter gaped at Deadpool for a solid minute before he started laughing. Hard. Deadpool watched him wonderingly.

 

“You’re not, uh . . . mad?”

 

“Why _would_ I be?” Peter’s laugh wound down into sporadic giggles. “You were telling the truth, after all. Marge can put _that_ in her pipe and smoke it!”

 

“You’re . . . just _fulla_ fun surprises, lately, Peter Parker.” Deadpool wrapped his arms around Peter’s waist, pulling Peter close and pressing his face against Peter’s chest. “I dunno if my heart can take much more of this.”

 

“Your heart can take plenty,” Peter murmured fondly, then tsked as Deadpool rubbed his face all over Peter’s torso like an affection-starved cat. “Wade, sweetie, I’m covered in dried come and I feel _super_ -gross, right now.”

 

“Well, you ain’t the only one.” Deadpool nuzzled into Peter’s chest making happy little noises. “We’re _both_ pretty skanky—but in a very _manly_ way.” Peter rolled his eyes again. “You can shower _after_ breakfast. It’s the most important meal of the day, after all.”

 

“Hmm. . . .”

 

“What?” Deadpool leaned back to look at Peter, sighing when Peter cupped his face in both hands, laying a trail of kisses from Deadpool’s forehead to his mouth.

 

“What about _you_ , stinky? _You_ probably need a shower even more than _I_ do. You’re pretty ripe.”

 

Peter knew Deadpool was listening to his Boxes when the former-merc’s head tilted in a considering way. “Huh. I can shower once I get back to my place . . . give you some, uh . . . space, I guess. So you can . . . recover without me and my nonexistent refractory time hangin’ around, pestering you for a three-peat.”

 

“Or,” Peter said, dragging the word out, kissing both of Deadpool’s cheeks. “You can hang out _here_ for as long as you like, and maybe we could try that showering-thing . . . together?”

 

Deadpool’s slow smile was so wide, it creased the mask again. His excitement and happiness were as palpable as a puppy’s.

 

“Baby,” he said, pulling Peter to his feet and into his arms. His hands slid down to grasp Peter’s ass in that rough, _possessive_ way. “I _like_ the way you think!”

 

“Yeah?” Peter’s own grin felt stupid-wide.

 

“ _Oh_ , yeah.” Deadpool pushed his mask up to kiss Peter. They both had _terrible_ morning-breath, but that didn’t slow either of them down.

 

Then Deadpool swung Peter up into his arms so fast, Peter yelped and hung on for dear life. But Deadpool only placed him back in bed gently, with a last, lingering kiss.

 

“Brekkies in bed, for my Baby Boy! We got _aaaaaalllll_ the fixin’s!” he exclaimed, bouncing away, into the kitchen. Peter was about to protest that, worried about food messing up the sheets . . . then he noticed all the stains _already_ on the sheets, and sighed as he considered simply throwing them out. Then he smiled to himself, shaking his head.

 

“First things first, Julia Child,” he called, laughing. “Bring that _coffee_ over here before you do _anything_ else! I’m already going through serious withdrawal and I have a feeling I’m gonna need _all_ the energy I can get for our day together. . . .”

 

“Indeed, you will,” Deadpool agreed with great satisfaction and anticipation. In moments, he was back with Peter’s coffee, still smiling wide enough to crease the mask. When Peter took the mug of coffee—it was black, one sugar, the way he liked it . . . unlike Deadpool who only liked a splash of actual coffee with his cream and sugar—their fingers touched and a near-visible spark leapt between them.

 

Peter looked down at their still-touching fingers, then up at Deadpool’s face. Then down at the crotch of Deadpool’s visibly distending leather pants. Then back up at Deadpool’s face.

 

“Nonexistent refractory time, huh?” Peter asked, eyebrows shooting up. Deadpool nodded slowly.

 

“Pretty much,” was his chipper reply.

 

“Let’s, uh, eat fast,” Peter suggested breathlessly, slurping tentatively at the hot coffee. Deadpool must’ve bought some other, _better_ brand when he bought the rest of the breakfast stuff. It was _very_ good. “I really _am_ starving, though. We burned through a _lot_ of protein, last night.”

 

He could hear Deadpool swallow as he, himself, took longer and longer swallows of coffee. “Wanna, uh, burn through some _more_ in the shower?”

 

“I’d assumed that we would.” Peter sent an arch look Deadpool’s way.

 

“Like I said, Petey.” Deadpool’s head was angled _just so_ , and Peter knew the other man was staring at his not-yet-erect, but _definitely_ interested cock. “I like the way you _think_.”

 

Then Deadpool was hurrying back to the kitchen to dish up breakfast. Peter watched wistfully as his lover hustled away, strong, powerful muscles rippling under leather, and smiled to himself.

 

“Oh, and please, _do not_ quit the Avengers for _me_ ,” he said casually. Deadpool froze and looked around at him again. Peter shrugged. “Only an _idiot_ would give up a job with good bennies like _that_.”

 

Deadpool watched Peter for a few moments, then shook his head.

 

“I really _would_ give that all up for you. In a _heartbeat_.”

 

“Really?” That stupid grin stretched Peter’s face again.

 

“Really.” Nothing but raw sincerity in Deadpool’s gravelly voice. “All you have to do is ask.”

 

“Well, that’s sweet, but . . . it’s a good thing you don’t _have_ to give it up. I would _never_ ask that of you. I’d much rather . . . adjust my own thinking.”

 

“Decided to change that no fraternization policy of yours, Petey-pie?” Peter could hear the smirk in Deadpool’s tone. It should’ve bothered him, smug as it was, but it really didn’t. It actually just made him _extremely_ horny.

 

“Nah,” he said, and let Deadpool hang for a good bit before continuing. “But since I’m not an Avenger, I guess that we— _technically_ —aren’t coworkers, really.”

 

“What about when they _make_ _you_ an Avenger?”

 

Peter snorted. “ _Never_ gonna happen, Wade.” After some _very_ conspicuous silence, Peter’s eyes widened. “Unless you know something I _don’t_.”

 

“Oh, I know _lots_ of things you don’t, Petey.” That smirky tone was back and bigger than ever. “ _Sexy_ things. And I’mma teach you _every one_.”

 

Peter rolled his eyes and let himself be distracted by breakfast in bed, then sex in the shower—then sex in bed. Then sex bent over his desk. Then sex on his _ceiling_ —making a note to get the truth out of Deadpool later.

 

For now, he had a whole day off and nothing better to do than spend it with his lover.

 

The _Avengers_ —and everything _else_ —could fucking well _wait_.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _“I told you, I don’t date guys I work with.”_  
>  “Fine, then I quit.”
> 
> One of the porniest things I've ever written that wasn't A/B/O. . . .
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/) for more porn and angst and the occasional meme.


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